Thursday, October 13, 2005

Perugia, Italy:

If Japan ever needs to open up an embassy or consulate in Perugia, Italy, they would do well to go ahead and do it in the living room of my apartment. Around the clock the place is humming with Japanese foreign students, all friends of my quiet, alcohol-abstinant roommate, Masura*. As the hours tick away down to 1:00, 2:00, 4:00 in the morning, his companions are less and less quiet and certainly anything but alcohol-abstinant. I woke up at 5:00 AM last night to the sound of loud and excited Japanese chatter outside my bedroom door. Nevertheless, I don't really care all that much. My Japanese visitors get a little excitable after the third or fourth bottle of plum wine or port gets opened up, but other than that, they're incredibly nice. Do I want some of that wine? A nice ramen soup? Fresh home-made curry? You bet. But where's the raw fish at, brother? Can't you help me out with a little of that? Maybe an express care package from mom, direct from Tokyo and stuffed with bloody red belly toro? Sadly I've had no such luck in that department. There aren't any sushi places anywhere near Perugia and the Japanese just shake their heads sadly whenever I inquire about such a restaurant. Apparently I can head two hours by train up to Florence and find a relatively poor excuse for it there. Probably doused in tomato sauce or served with some buffalo mozzarella.

As for my addiction to Japanese food, it is often the case that when a group of Japanese congregates in my apartment, and I am introduced to a new person who has never been there before, somebody else in the room quizes me on my knowledge of different names for sushi, Japanese beer, and food in general, for the benefit and possible amusement of that new guest. Whenever I can impress the newcomer with my simple but strong foreigner's appreciation of Sapporo beer, gyoza dumplings and fresh uni, tako, ika, or ikura, I'm humbly satisfied. In turn I am sometimes called on to answer questions about American culture and cuisine. What really happened between Brad and Jennifer? Do they serve springrolls at our McDonald's?

"Non bevo stasera perchè non voglio avere dei problemi con il mio --- how the hell do you say liver?" says Yumi, a frequent guest and fellow Italian wine afficionado, explaining her need to rest an important internal organ from its normal evening duties --- for a change**. Unsurprisingly, she comes around a half an hour later. As I sit in my living room with a glass of Friuli Pinot Nero (which, at $5.00 for the bottle, is as good as a $15 or $20 bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir) in hand, a half-dozen Japanese, including Yumi, raise their glasses in a toast.

"Chin-chin," they say. Smiles all around. Chin-chin is a typical toast used in Italy. The Japanese get a kick out saying it here because they could never get away with using it back at home. Saying chin means something entirely different over there. Imagine a group of Japanese business men gathered solemnly around a table for dinner at an expensive restaurant. The deal has been approved, the contract has been signed, the wire has just hit the bank yesterday. The chairman stands and raises his glass of 1970 Chateau Palmer, Margaux.

"Dick!" he yells.

"Dick! Dick!" yells the rest of the table, clinking their glasses.

Thought the Japanese were above that base sense of humor? Think again. There's a reason I like them so much.

* (Lorenzo, my French roommate, has taken to calling Masura "Piccolo Samurai," a nickname Masura nods and smiles at, no matter how often he hears it, which is pretty much all the time. I don't dislike Lorenzo but won't think he doesn't have it due to him if one of these days Masura suddenly whips out a three-foot long Samurai sword and swiftly lops off one of Lorenzo's limbs with it. Or maybe his chin.)

** (Don't think we didn't look it up. The word for liver in Italiano is "fegato," for those multilingual alcoholic sorts dying to know.)